


Mine Just the Same

by wickedorin



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Mindfuck, Nightmarish, Violence, not very nice at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 04:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17114873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedorin/pseuds/wickedorin
Summary: Written for my "Fuck SESTA/FOSTA" drabble drive. Request: "And when I need to dominate, you’re not my little boy."





	Mine Just the Same

**Author's Note:**

> Uh. This got away from me and meandered straight from the request into… another thing. While I can’t be sure that the intent was for something alarmingly fucked up… well that’s kind of just the only way I can manage to write these two. This ain’t sweet or delicate.

Again.  _Again_.  A dream, maybe.  A nightmare.  That explained why he was always _there_ , always able to appear and sneak up and–

Pin him.  The monster always pinned him, restrained him.  And there was always that panic, that _No!_ , that way he could feel his breath go quick and shallow along with his heart racing.  He could repeat it in his mind, as many times as he wanted to ( _No no no no no_ ) but his mouth wouldn’t move, wouldn’t form the words.

Restrained.  He was restrained and his body never listened.  His body waded through the panic and came out on the other side confused.  Aroused.  Then the monster would laugh.  Low, rumbling.  Almost a growl, but mocking.  Insulting his powerlessness despite everything else, his _weakness_ , body and mind.  The word–

_Puppet_.  Strings tugged and held.  Tied up in them.  Giving an eager, disgustingly desperate sound of frustration and _want_ when the monster ground against him, moved him, turned him over.

It was a struggle.  ( _Wasn’t it?_ )  Always.  ( _Really?_ )  Kicking, squirming, fighting against strong hands and a larger, more muscular frame, but there was nothing to be done.  There was nothing.

Always teasing to start.  Pulling on strings.  Finding places he wouldn’t have suspected, never knew, could send shocks ( _of pleasure_ ) all the way through him.  Squirming and panting, trying to get away from the building anguish ( _no, not that, it’s–_ ).  It was humiliating.

But no more humiliating than the begging.  Begging to _stop_ ( _keep going_ ), finally worn down from the fighting and reduced, reduced, reduced until there was nothing left but gasps and groans and broken, shaking words he couldn’t even hear himself say.  There were only the monster’s words, taunting and laughing, purring and vicious ( _encouraging and desired_ ).

It hurt.  It _hurt_ , but of course it hurt.  He tensed and squirmed and fought anew, tried to thrash away from the fingers regardless of how tightly he was held, pinned, tied, bound.  He didn’t _want_ what was being forced ( _offered_ ), he wanted to close his eyes and go far away.  He wanted to run.

( _Wouldn’t let him run–_ )

Full.  Eventually he was so full.  Splayed wide, used, an object ( _a puppet_ ), crying out.  Surprised every time, somehow.  Surprised at how everything ached ( _fell into place_ ).

Heat.  _Burn_.  Release.

He woke up screaming.  He always woke up screaming.  Panting, shaking.  With the distinctive need to change his clothes and sheets.

It would fade eventually, the ghost of that monster.  It would surely fade.

( _He tried not to dread that day._ )


End file.
